


Teenage Wasteland

by Jaded_Girl_83



Series: Eight Strapping Daughters [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gaby does not have time for this nonsense, Gen, Illya is Very Stressed nowadays, Napoleon does not care for modern art, Napoleon is a morally irresponsible Italian mama, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14122851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaded_Girl_83/pseuds/Jaded_Girl_83
Summary: Napoleon Solo never thought he’d see the day when there would be too many young women in his apartment.





	Teenage Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the “Eight Strapping Daughters” ‘verse. If you are confused, please see the series orientation page.
> 
> Translations for non-English words and phrases below in notes. (I take full responsibility for any errors, as I do not speak German or Russian.)

** NEW YORK, NEW YORK - 1983 **

Napoleon Solo hadn’t had any particular plans when setting out that evening. After a sumptuous dinner at The Palm, he eventually found himself at the Castelli Gallery, trying, once again, to understand the appeal of Andy Warhol. 

His perplexity (and good looks) had drawn the notice of one Isabella Cavanaugh. She was beautiful, lively, and intelligent… save for the fact that she was a modern art enthusiast.  She’d laughed and called him a snob, he’d smiled and called her pretentious, and the evening had progressed to the point where they were now enthusiastically making out as they stumbled out of the elevator towards Solo’s apartment.  He might have passed fifty a few years back- his hair gaining a distinguished touch of silver- but the life of a super spy had kept him strong and agile, and he took to the game with the same enthusiasm as ever.

As soon as he opened the door to his apartment, thirty years of espionage instincts went off like an alarm, and in the blink of an eye he had pushed Isabella behind the door jam with one hand and leveled a pistol at the couch with the other. His paramour gasped at the violent motion, gasped again when she saw his gun, but by then he had already let go of her arm and turned on the nearest lamp.

The tousled mass of dark brown curls shifted, brown eyes blinking blearily at the light.

Solo lowered the gun with a sigh of relief. And no small degree of exasperation.  “Marina,” he said, half greeting, half request for explanation.

Isabella stepped through the doorway before another word was said. “Who is Marina?” she asked, her voice sharp.  She stopped short when she saw the teenager curled up on his couch.  Her gaze darted back to him.  “She had better be your daughter!”

“Niece,” Solo corrected her absently, shutting the door before they woke the whole floor. He stepped over to the couch and inspected the red-rimmed eyes with concern.  “What’s the matter, _Schätzchen_?”

For a split second, she had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t mean to bother you, Uncle Solo,” she muttered, looking over his shoulder at Isabella.  Then her face scrunched up with all the self-righteous entitlement that a sixteen year old could muster.  “But they’re being _impossible_ and I know you’re busy and you have a guest over but I _really_ need to talk to you now and… and…”  She glowered at Isabella.  “You’re just going to have to wait!”

He could hear Isabella’s sputter of shock and indignation, but Napoleon knew better than to scold a teenager in the midst of a full melt-down. “Who’s being impossible?” he asked in a calming tone.  “What’s going on?”

Her eyes rolled skyward. “Papa and Mama!  They are being _completely_ unreasonable- I’m not a _child_ , you know!- you’d think they didn’t trust me _at all_ … and… and I _love him_!” she concluded with a sob.

Solo briefly closed his eyes in a prayer for patience. He’d endured a number of unpleasant experiences over the course of his life, but he’d take at least half of them over teenaged lovesickness.  He patted Marina’s heaving shoulder, and gave Isabella a deeply apologetic look. _Just give me a couple of minutes_ , he mouthed, pleading, before turning back to his niece.  “I know they certainly can be stubborn…”  He trailed off as another, more worrisome thought occurred.  “Do your parents know you’re here?”

Marina stopped sobbing long enough to turn wary eyes on him. “Of course,” she said, unconvincingly.

They all jumped as the apartment suddenly echoed with deafening thuds, a relentless pounding on the door that might well have been delivered with a hammer. Or a cannon.  “Cowboy!  Cowboy!” a deep, accented voice bellowed urgently.  “Is Marina there?  Is she with you?  She is not in her room!”

Another round of pounding followed, and Isabella retreated behind Solo, white as a sheet with her nails digging into his arm. Marina half rose from the couch and angled her body towards the window.  “Don’t let him know I’m here!” she hissed.

“Ah, _no_ ,” Napoleon countered, throwing her an incredulous look as he made his way over to the door.  Hopefully, he’d reach it before Peril broke it down.  “I like having my furniture and my bones all in one piece, thank you very much. _Sit back down_ ,” he commanded as she took another step towards the window.  “We are going to discuss this like adults.”

Peril’s relentless knocking pushed the door into Solo’s face as soon as he turned the knob, and six and a half feet of frantic Russian barreled through without an apology. He saw Marina almost instantly.  He made a choked noise, and raised a shaking finger to point in her direction.  Unfortunately, Isabella was standing more-or-less between them.  She let out a little “eep!” and swayed on her feet.  Behind her, Marina crossed her arms and glared in defiance.

Solo stepped in before the situation could turn any more disastrous. He put one arm around Isabella to settle her, the other around Marina to keep her from bolting.  “Yes, Peril, she’s here.  And she’s safe.  There’s been no harm done, except to my _evening_ ,” he finished with a significant nod towards his guest.  “Isabella, this is my… business partner, Kuryakin.  He’s usually better mannered than this.  Well,” he amended, “sometimes.”

Illya ignored them both. “What did you mean by this?” he seethed.  “Now on top of your unacceptable behavior, you make your mother and I sick with worry and give bad example-”

“Like you care!” Marina wailed over him.

“-to your _OF COURSE I CARE_!” he all but roared, hurt flashing through the anger in his eyes.  “Why do you think we do this?  Why do you think we make rules for you?”

“I assumed it was to _ruin_ my _life!_ ” she retorted, tears welling up in her eyes once more.

Peril’s indignant reply was overpowered by a ringing telephone. Sighing at yet another interruption but grateful for the distraction, Napoleon picked it up.  “Hello?” he answered, his voice giving no indication of the train wreck his night had become.

“Solo?” Gaby’s husky voice sounded through the receiver. “Has Illya stopped by yet?”

“I wouldn’t say stopped by so much as dropped in like a bomb,” he responded conversationally. “Marina is here too, by the way.”

“Oh. Good.  That simplifies things.”

“Simplifies things?” he echoed, trying to focus on her voice instead of the argument going on behind him. “You didn’t know she was over here either?”

“Well, I knew it was a possibility, but mostly I wanted Illya to take you along when he looked for her. You have more of a knack for dealing with teenage girls.”

“Teller, a rock wrapped in barbed wire would have more of a knack for dealing with teenage girls than Peril does,” he all but snapped, near the end of his patience. Isabella was edging towards the door.  “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind collecting your husband and daught-”

“ _I_ am currently dealing with a toddler’s ear infection while getting the Corvette ready for Saturday’s mission,” was her tart reply.

Solo winced; he’d forgotten about Munich.

“Furthermore, I have already tried to help this situation. _Illya_ is the one who apparently wants to run a convent; _I_ don’t have a problem with them dating.  Sixteen is more than old enough.”

“Then why is Marina upset with you too?”

“I don’t like the boy,” she said offhandedly, as if this was more than enough reason to justify handing the problem over to him.

As Solo slowly counted to ten, Gaby shushed someone on her end. “ _Einen kleinen Moment bitte, Liebchen_ ,” she whispered before her subsequent yell made Solo wince and pull the phone away from his ear.  “Sabrina!  Could you read Karina a story?”  A brief pause.  “No, she can’t- she’s at shooting practice tonight.”

Isabella had her jacket back on and was almost to the door. “Is the evening really that unsalvageable?” he called to her in a final effort.

Isabella no longer looked scared, but Solo wasn’t sure the amused expression on her face was any improvement. “Seems to me like you have _family_ _issues_ to deal with,” she smirked.  “I’ll see myself out.  Let me know if you ever feel up to tackling Dadaism.” 

As she disappeared from his doorway (and more than likely his life- damned if he was going to dive into _that_ nonsensical quagmire), Solo took a brief moment to mourn the final demise of what had started out to be such a promising night.  He cast a dull stare at the heated argument that promised to engulf the rest of his night in misery and frustration, and raised the phone back to his ear.  “So you really aren’t going to do anything to help?”

“Oh, I would be more than happy to go fetch Illya and Marina,” Gaby offered far too sweetly. “Of course, that would mean that you would have to come over here to manage the rest of the girls.”

Distressed two-year-old wailing filtered in through the handset. Napoleon ran the figures and chose the preferable option.  “I’m sending your husband home,” he sighed.  “I’ll handle Marina.”

Gaby hummed. “Probably for the best.  Good luck.”

“Why thank you, Gaby dear,” Napoleon retorted with a degree of sarcasm that was rare for him. He replaced the handset with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary.

Peril’s hair was sticking up in clumps, as if he’d run his hands through it multiple times. “I should put tracker on you for good measure!”

“Like I couldn’t find it!” Marina sneered.

“I will put surgical implant in you!”

“That is both dangerous and illegal, Peril,” Solo chirped, smoothly inserting himself between the two combatants.

Illya gave him a defensive, positively mulish look. “I could improve design to make it not so dangerous,” he muttered.

“And on that note,” Solo said, clapping a hand on the Russian’s shoulder, “it’s time to say goodnight.”

He grunted, shaking off the hand. “Indeed.  Too much time has been wasted here already.  Come, Marina.”

“Perhaps Marina would like to stay here, tonight,” he quickly offered before Marina could howl her objections. “I’m sure we could all do with some time to calm down and gather our tempers.”

Peril’s face darkened. “Is not your business, Cowboy,” he rumbled, a dangerous note in his voice.

“Trust me, Peril, it will be for the best.” He gave Illya his best cheerful-and-innocent smile.  “Unless you prefer I tell Gaby that you threatened her daughter with a surgically implanted tracker.”

Illya’s face turned grey. His mouth shut, opened, shut again.  “Yes, perhaps a night to think things over is best,” he muttered, throwing Solo a look before he turned back to his daughter.

They stared each other down in silence before Illya sighed, his face softening. Bending down, he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.  “ _Sladkikh snov, solnyshka_ ,” he murmured.

Marina’s chin quivered, but she managed to nod in response.

With a last glance over his shoulder, Illya finally left. Napoleon firmly shut the door behind him, making a deliberate racket of securing the locks and chain.  He couldn’t help a small breath of relief, though the matter was far from resolved.

Marina had kept up her defiant front for a total of three seconds after the door closed. Then she crumpled and curled up in a miserable lump on the sofa.  “Why is it like this?” she sobbed and hiccoughed.  “Why is it so _hard_?”

Napoleon settled himself on the sofa and stretched an arm around her shoulders. She burrowed into his side, and he tried not to wince at the thought of snot and tears all over his waistcoat.  An indeterminate number of minutes passed as he let her cry herself out.  “You’re the oldest, _Liebchen_ ,” he finally offered when she had settled somewhat.  “You’re the one who will always be blazing the trail.  Yours will be the pain, but yours will be the glory, too.”

She scoffed and gave him a look, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Napoleon cut off a chuckle while it was still in his chest, and gave her a peck on the temple.  Marina sighed- still a bit morose, but definitely calmer. 

There was a series of scratches and rattles at the front door. Solo frowned as the locks turned, then blinked as a slim knife unhooked the chain through the open crack.  Alina stepped through, lock picks in her hands and her hands on her hips.  “We have a situation!”  Her eyes flashed over.  “Hello, Uncle Solo.”  She then continued her original point to her original focus.  “We have a situation!”

“You think I don’t know?” Marina leapt from the couch in a fury.  “The parents are being absolutely imposs-”

“Not _them_ ,” Alina snapped, holding out a small pack of photographs.  “Your boyfriend is a spy!”

“What?!” came Marina and Solo’s simultaneous reaction. Marina snatched the pictures and flipped through them, indignation darkening her face with every image.

“Here he is removing recording bugs from his clothes,” Alina pointed at one photo and another. “Here he is photographing you after school.  And _here_ ,” she snarled, her finger stabbing at the last, “he is meeting with a known THRUSH contact!”

Napoleon hastily rescued the pictures before Marina could crush them in her fist. He hummed in displeasure.  It was indeed William Griss, drug pusher and THRUSH informant.  He cast a wary glance at Alina; how had a fifteen-year-old gotten into the U.N.C.L.E. database?

Marina shook her head, anger and pain warring in her face. “I just… I can’t believe it.”

“We’ve got a bigger issue,” Alina said, her voice flat and unsympathetic. “Namely, what do we do now?  You can’t keep dating him, obviously.  But if we report him, Papa will be convinced that he was right all along and he will never let any of us date ever again!”

“No!” Marina hissed, jabbing a finger for emphasis. “We handle this _ourselves_.  That way Papa will see that he can trust us!” 

Alina’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” she murmured.  “ _Sehr gut_.”  She tapped a finger against her lips.  “First, we’ll have to lure him to a secluded location.”

“I doubt luring him will be difficult,” Marina said with a roll of her eyes. “But we’ll have to be careful.  We don’t want to give him an opportunity to try and kidnap me.”  She paused, cocking her head.  “Who knows about this?”

“Irina took the after-school pictures when she pretended to be sick on Wednesday; she’s putting Papa’s surveillance equipment back before he notices it’s gone. I didn’t bother bringing Sabrina in since she has a ballet recital this week.”

Marina’s smile was icy and blazing all at once. “Okay.  I’ll ask him out to the movies this weekend, but let him know that I’ll be meeting you afterwards.  That should keep me safe enough.  Wait for me at the south emergency exit with the chloroform.”

“Papa doesn’t keep chloroform at the house since the twins found the last bottle,” Alina frowned. “How about a lead pipe?”

“That’ll do. There’s an empty warehouse not too far from the cinema.  Make sure you have handcuffs and rope in the car.”

“You have your license already?” Napoleon frowned, looking at Alina.

“Of course I know how to drive,” she didn’t answer him. In the most angelically reassuring tone imaginable.  Her attention quickly returned to her older sister.  “So we take him to the warehouse.”

“Find out everything he knows!”

“Bleed the _ublyudok_ absolutely dry!”

“And then,” Marina snarled, slamming a fist on his end table, “we give _Opa_ his head on a platter!”

“Metaphorically, right?” Solo interjected in alarm, hastily getting to his feet. That just might be the straw that finally sent Waverly into retirement.

Two sets of eyes turned towards him. Silence dragged on for at least five seconds longer than was comfortable.  “Of course, Uncle Solo,” they chorused demurely.

Solo had never in his life rubbed at his face with his hands. He did not do so now.  But he did massage the area between his eyes.  Even so, he did not miss the sisters’ exchanged glance.  “We truly are sorry for disturbing your evening, Uncle,” Alina said, sincere and apologetic.  He was almost willing to believe it.

“If that woman was so easily frightened, then she wasn’t worthy of you anyway,” Marina scoffed.

He hadn’t been particularly concerned about worthiness so much as willingness, but he could hardly say that to two impressionable teenagers. “That’s very kind of you,” he said instead.  He smothered a sigh.  “Have either of you eaten?”

“Yes, but we _always_ have room for one of your masterpieces,” Marina cooed, giving him her patented, 1000 watt smile.

He couldn’t help but return it. He was going soft.  “I think I could whip up some stir fry for two such lovely and charming creatures,” he said, taking a hand from each and kissing them ceremoniously.

His two oldest nieces giggled, and followed him into the kitchen to help. He’d just finished pulling the wok from the cupboard when he heard one of his windows rattle.

A blonde and a brunette tumbled in, disheveled from the wind. “Galina!  Polina!” Marina cried in exasperation.  “What are you doing here?”

The twins grinned up at them. “Irina said you were at Uncle Solo’s!” Polina replied, unrepentant.

Galina took stock of the scene in the kitchen and stopped trying to smooth her dark hair into submission. “Are we having a sleepover?!” she asked in delight, clapping her hands and bouncing on her heels.

“Apparently,” Solo said dryly.

Every female eye in the apartment turned to him, and in a flash he found himself with a twin hugging each leg and Marina and Alina flanking him to each place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Napoleon!” they laughed in unison.

He gave a rueful chuckle; an unsuccessful attempt to disguise the sudden lump in his throat and warmth in his chest. This certainly wasn’t the sort of female company he’d been looking forward to tonight…

But he really wouldn’t change it for the world.

He shook off the unusually introspective moment and bestowed on the lot of them his fondest smile. He received four brilliant smiles in return… and then they all jumped as the apartment once more thundered with deafening pounds on the front door.

“COWBOY! COWBOY!  NOW ALINA IS GONE!  SHE IS NOT IN HER ROOM!”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Schätzchen_  
>  Roughly pronounced: SHET-zyen  
> German term of endearment, literal translation: little treasure
> 
>  _Einen kleinen Moment bitte_  
>  Roughly pronounced: EYE-nen KLAI-nen MO-ment BIH-tah  
> German, “Just a (little/tiny) moment please.”
> 
>  _Liebchen_  
>  Roughly pronounced: LEEB-shin  
> German term of endearment, literal translation: little dearest/darling
> 
>  _Sladkikh snov, solnyshka_  
>  Cyrillic: Сладких снов, солнышко.  
> Roughly pronounced: SLAD-kikh SNOV, sohl-NISH-kah.  
> Russian, “Sweet dreams, sunshine” [term of endearment, literal translation: sun]
> 
>  _Sehr gut_  
>  Roughly pronounced: ZAIR GOOT  
> German: “Very good.”
> 
>  _ublyudok_  
>  Cyrillic: ублюдок  
> Roughly pronounced: ooh-BLOO-dak  
> Russian obscenity, “bastard”
> 
>  _Opa_  
>  Roughly pronounced: OH-pah  
> German, “Grandpa.” (affectionate, casual)


End file.
